


The Care and Keeping Of Jihyun Kim

by keeperofthefour



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blindness, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeperofthefour/pseuds/keeperofthefour
Summary: I am irrevocably in love with Jihyun Kim, and nothing you say or do will ever change my mind.I'm sorry in advance for all the crying these people do. I am SOFT for V.
Relationships: Rika/V | Kim Jihyun, V | Kim Jihyun & Main Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	The Care and Keeping Of Jihyun Kim

Songs: lovely, Khalid ft. Billie eilish  
Photograph, Ed Sheeran   
I'll keep You Safe, Sleeping Glass   
Take me to church, Hozier   
  
  
You first met Jihyun Kim through a mutual friend at one of his gallery exhibits. She’d brought you along because she knew of your love for photography, and his series titled _Eye of Heaven_ promised to be his most provocative and absorbing collection to date. Instead of his birth name, he took credit for his work under a pseudonym: quite simply, the letter V.  
You had initially balked at the idea. Sure, you appreciated the fine arts, but you hardly considered yourself a connoisseur of such. You even dabbled in amateur photography yourself from time to time, but to attend an exhibition, with people you didn't know talking about things you didn't understand fully...it just didn't appeal to you.  
Jaehee promised you would love it. She showed you the advertisement over a cup of coffee one day, her brown eyes shining with love and admiration for her talented friend. "Really, you're going to love it. Please come! I'll pay for your admission, and we can leave early if you find you’re not comfortable."  
With a resigned sigh, you agreed. Social situations weren't your strong suit, but you were willing to step out of your comfort zone for the sake of your friend, whose gentle expression spoke volumes as she held out the newspaper article to you. She was proud of Jihyun, and wanted to share this experience with you, her most treasured friend outside of her work and fundraising organization.  
Two days later, you found yourself standing in the middle of the art gallery, glass of champagne in hand, making small talk with a male coworker that you'd happened to run into. He kept making terrible jokes as a means of flirting with you, and you smiled politely, cheeks flushed red from alcohol and embarrassment, fending off his less-than-subtle advances by avoiding eye contact and barely acknowledging his tasteless humor. You had lost track of Jaehee a few moments before when Jumin had pulled her away, citing some work-related excuse. She huffed, apologized profusely, and followed Jumin to deal with whatever business he needed her for. Heart racing, panic beginning to course through your veins, you excused yourself with a murmured apology, took two steps, and ran smack into the strong, lithe backside of Jihyun Kim, your champagne sloshing onto his jacket.  
“Oh, I am _so sorry_!” you cried, watching the alcohol stain the charcoal fabric. He turned to you then, turquoise eyes meeting yours, but somehow looking through you. His smile was gentle, captivating, even reassuring as he waved his hand as though to dismiss your anxiety.  
“It’s no problem. Really…” It seemed as though he wanted to say something else, but his expression changed from slight amusement to something more serious, more awed. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met,” he began, extending a hand. You accepted, his cool, dry palm cupping yours tenderly, making your head spin with an unexpected rush of electricity. He must have felt it, too, because you stood like that for an indiscernible length of time, shaking hands, staring at each other, a ridiculous smile plastered on your face.   
“Hey! I see you’ve met V.” Jaehee returned to your side, apologizing for abandoning you at first, but soon trailing off when she saw the exchange that was unfolding before her. Her eyes darted from your face to his before she placed her hand over the two of yours, effectively breaking whatever spell had been cast when you made contact. More flustered than you had been before, your face blazing as your pulse pounded in your ears, you pulled away, tucking your hand into the pocket of your cardigan. Jihyun’s hand fell to his side, but his eyes never left your face. It was as if he was memorizing your every feature, from the line of your brow to the curve of your cupid’s bow.

  
It was the beginning of something so tragic and so beautiful it was a wonder you didn’t lose yourself completely from the very beginning.   
  
  
He took you to dinner the following weekend at a quiet, local cafe. Tucked away in an intimate corner booth, the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp illuminating the table, you enjoyed your first meal with Jihyun, finding that conversation came easy and natural in his company. He was every bit as charming and soft spoken as he was the night you met, his quiet laughter resonating in the space between you when you recalled the mishap with the champagne.  
“You don’t understand! I was desperate to get away from him. His pick-up lines were some of the worst I’ve ever heard. What was the one…” You paused to think, taking a sip of your wine before continuing, _“_ Oh, oh! _‘Go ahead, feel my shirt. It’s made out of boyfriend material.’”_ Your own laughter rang out, clear and melodic, and Jihyun watched your gleeful expression, completely enamored with you. Your laughter triggered his, and soon you were both doubled over at the memory of your first, unfortunate gallery experience.  
Jihyun didn’t drive, so he walked you home through a crisp autumn evening, golden leaves crunching under your measured steps. The air was cool, the sky onyx, littered with stars that seemed to wink at you when he reached for your hand.  
At the door to your apartment, he turned to you, cradling your cheek in his palm, his smooth, cool fingertips a balm for your skin.   
“I’d like to see you again. It’s a rare thing for me these days to enjoy the company of another, but I feel something different when I’m with you. Can we meet again soon?”   
You nodded, feeling bashful, the frantic rhythm of your heart beating against your chest. “I’d like that very much, Jihyun,” you managed.   
“Please, call me V. Everyone I cherish calls me V.” He seemed to be measuring your reaction again, one of the many things you would come to love about him. Always in tune with you, always trying his very best to decipher the inner workings of you and all your insecurities, your likes and dislikes, your highs and lows. You didn’t know it then, but his sight was nearly gone by the time you met him. He perceived your face in blurred lines and distorted shapes, only able to see definition when you were nose to nose in your most intimate moments.   
  
It took him two months to kiss you. Two. Months.   
  
_Two months of the most intellectually intimate, stimulating, life-giving dates you’d ever been party to. V was a masterful artist of all things emotional, spiritual, musical, and imaginative. He wove stories of his devastating childhood, of his strained relationship with his parents, his extraordinary friendship with Jumin Han. In turn, you shared your deepest insecurities, your battle with anxiety and depression from a young age, the torment you endured seeking the right combination of medication and therapy to help you find some semblance of normalcy. He took every word in stride, comforting you when the tears came, sympathizing with your broken relationship with your own family. You shared your amateur photographs with him, and with the help of thick, corrective lenses and ample lighting, he was able to appreciate your art, your soul printed on photographic paper.  
  
_ “I wish I could see them more clearly,” he said, reaching for your hand. You were seated in your favorite booth at your favorite cafe, your photographs fanned out on the table before you. You sat hip to hip on a bench upholstered in burgundy velvet, sharing the space as lovers would. It was easy and comfortable, the way you nestled against him. Over steaming bowls of miso soup, he pulled your hand to his face and held it there, brushing a lock of hair from your forehead before whispering, “You’re so lovely. I...I'd like to kiss you now, if that's okay."   
You smiled at him, at how his face blushed pink with anticipation, his eyes glimmering with hope and wonder.  
"I thought you'd never ask…"   
He didn't kiss you right away; instead, he touched his fingertips to your forehead and began to trace the contours of your face in the most delicate way, his lips slightly parted as he marveled at the softness of your skin. Over your nose, under your eyes, along the curve of your mouth, thumb pressing lightly into the silken plush of your bottom lip before hooking his finger under your chin, nudging you forward to finally kiss you- featherlight, almost hesitant, but full of such tender devotion it stole the breath from your lungs and made your head spin.  
He lingered for a moment, unmoving, before deepening the kiss. Tears welled in your eyes and you quickly shut them, fearful that they would spill and somehow ruin the moment. You'd never been kissed with such care, such fondness before, and you weren't quite sure how to process exactly what was happening to you. You felt comforted, as if he were taking all of your insecurities away from you with each gentle slide of his mouth against yours. It was cozy, familiar, reminiscent of a warm summer breeze, filled with a sense of longing and even melancholy. But it also filled you with such a burning desire for this man, enigma that he was. Fire coursed through your veins, threatening to consume you from within. His warm hand met with the skin at the nape of your neck, fingers tangling themselves in your hair, and you feared you might melt into your seat at his touch.   
When he pulled away, you paused, suspended in space and time, lips swollen and parted in a silent plea. You wanted more, but you also felt full, complete in a way that you’d never experienced before. It transcended any reason, all logic. It was just a kiss, but it was somehow so much more.  
“Amazing…” he mused, tracing the shell of your ear before placing a kiss just below your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine.  
You wanted to say something, anything, but words failed you. You followed his eyes as they once again took in the details of your face, your expression, the blush of your cheeks, the glistening tears in the corners of your eyes.   
“You’re crying,” he whispered, touching your lashes first with fingertips, then with his lips.   
“I’m sorry,” you managed to murmur, the tears spilling freely now. He frowned slightly, shifting so that he could drape an arm across your shoulders, pulling you closer so that you could rest your head on his chest. “No, I’m sorry if I...if it was too much. I couldn’t help it.”  
You wiped at your cheeks with a quiet sniffle. “No, no. That’s not it at all. I promise. It was...perfect.”   
  
  
Months later, the two of you were in preparations for another gallery show, working alongside each other to choose prints and frames, deciding which to sell and which to simply showcase. You were in awe of his talent and more often than not accompanied him on excursions to scout out new subject material. Though his vision grew progressively worse, his photography remained utterly brilliant. He even began painting again, which greatly surprised you, especially after a conversation you’d been having about his mother.   
“She forced it upon me at one point. Insisted that I had art ‘in my blood’ and told me that I had to express it because my life depended on it.” He scoffed at the memory, choosing not to elaborate further as he continued precise brushstrokes over the canvas he’d chosen, positioned in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of his studio apartment. But his tension was tangible, emanating in waves from his squared shoulders, the twitch in his jaw as he worked, and his strokes soon became violent, angry.  
“What do you mean?” you asked, though not sure if you should press the issue. His body language said he wanted to keep it inside, but something else screamed to escape in the way he lowered his head, turning to you with a solemn frown, a spatter of yellow paint on his cheek, giving you a sense of his incredible vulnerability.   
He sighed, turning back to his canvas. “I mean...my mother wanted me to be an artist before _I knew_ I wanted to be one. It wasn’t a practical way to make a living. All the artists I knew of were tortured, poor, _unhappy_ because they were creating for the sake of others, not for personal fulfillment.” He turned to you again, brush still lifted mid-stroke, eyes imploring, cheeks stained red with emotion. “Why make something beautiful if it only fulfills the needs of others? Isn’t that missing the point? Shouldn’t we create for ourselves just as much- if not more- than we do for the eyes and hearts of those who would appreciate it? _What good is a talent or a gift if you cannot enjoy it yourself?”  
_ Stunned, you watched him turn back to the canvas, swirling his brush against a spot of vermillion. “I didn’t want to sell out. I didn’t want my art to become meaningless, and I feared that it would if I forced myself into the industry. Mother tried to tell me that it wouldn’t happen like that, but I didn’t believe her. I was young and stubborn. I thought I knew it all, as teenagers do.” “But your art isn’t meaningless, V. It’s some of the most engrossing work I’ve ever seen. I’m no expert, but...your photographs _move_ people. Even though you’re nearly blind…” You stopped, fearing that you’d touched on too sensitive a subject and _knowing_ you had when his shoulders dropped, his head lowering again in a grave nod.  
“Yes...you’re right. Jumin compares me to Beethoven in that aspect. He couldn’t hear, but he created symphonies, concertos, sonatas...some of his most brilliant work was done after his hearing had completely deteriorated. He wasn’t born deaf, you know. Like me. I wasn’t born blind.”  
He abandoned his work and came to sit next to you where you were curled into the corner of his couch, legs tucked beneath you under a knit blanket. You had been reading before, enjoying the quiet stillness of just being in the same space, and your book still rested on your knees, a cup of tea on the side table that had long since grown cold. He picked up a corner of the blanket and curled in beside you, pulling your head against his chest where you could feel the rise and fall of his breath and his heartbeat, steady and reassuring. He toyed with your hair as he spoke in a contemplative, far-away voice, recounting the painful memories he had bottled up for so long- of how he lost his sight and his faith in love.   
  
Of course, you knew a few details about Rika from Jaehee, but she was always reluctant to speak of it because she didn’t want to overstep any boundaries, which you greatly respected. V had mentioned Rika once or twice in passing, usually in reference to his artwork, but there was always a darkness that passed through his eyes when he did, so you would quickly drop or change the subject, never wanting to upset him any further.  
Silent, patient, unconcerned by the hours that passed, you listened to him tell the story of Rika’s illness and how it affected their star-crossed love affair almost from the very beginning.“I saw the signs,” he said, “but I chose to ignore them because I loved her. I loved her so much I was willing to sacrifice myself and give her anything she wanted. Rika...Rika was my sun.” His voice faltered, his quiet confidence cracked, and he bent until his cheek rested upon the crown of your head, sighing softly.  
Your arms circled him and he lifted your chin, kissing your wet cheeks before drawing back to watch you, worry etched in his brow. “I fear that she has ruined me.” You rubbed the pad of your thumb over his cheek, replacing it with your lips, quietly reassuring him that you were here, and you weren’t going anywhere. “If she’s ruined you, then let me fix you. Let me help piece you back together, V.”  
He kissed you then. You’d shared many, many kisses before this one that were sweet, filled with tenderness and care and delicate emotion. But this kiss? This one was tinged with an indescribable sadness, a deep pensiveness as his lips slid against yours. He was starved for love, starved for a taste of something real and pure and true.   
So you kissed him back with fervor, acutely aware of every slight tilt of his head, each time his hands grazed your ear or traced the column of your neck. He sighed, wrapping you in his lean arms and pulling you as close as he possibly could, somehow afraid that you would vanish into thin air if he let go.  
“I don’t deserve this...I don’t...deserve you,” he whispered, lips on your ear, his breath warm and moist against your skin.   
You swung your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “V! Listen to me. You do deserve love. Everyone does. No matter how terrible a person you insist you are. No matter your past, or your future, or any fucked-up part of you that you insist is unlovable. You deserve it. And I’m here,” you rasped, the tears coming in a deluge, dropping down your face and off your chin, into his hair while you held him against your chest, heaving with sobs. “I want to be the one to give you that love.”   
Until now, V had held his passions at bay. There had been many intimate evenings spent together that involved some intense making out, eager hands roaming beneath the confines of clothing, desire in the air between you; but he had always stopped before things went too far. You thought he was just being polite, virtuous, maybe even a little insecure about some part of himself he hadn’t yet revealed to you. But after hearing what you sensed was just the proverbial tip of the iceberg regarding his past with Rika, you understood his damage. It made sense now why he was always so hesitant to move forward with you.   
  
He held your face between his hands, fingers sliding behind your ears, his forehead pressed against yours. You held one another's gaze for a moment before he moved in, lips connecting with yours, stealing your senses, your concept of time, your soul. Something changed in that moment, and he opened himself to you and you flowed into him, velvet tongue sliding past your parted lips, a quiet moan uttered against your mouth. He kissed your cheek, along your jawline, then warmed the sensitive skin of your neck with his breath before brushing against it with aching tenderness.   
You kissed and kissed and kissed, riding the waves of his affection with reckless abandon, not caring one bit if you drowned in the deluge of his intense devotion.  
His hands roamed beneath your t-shirt, fingertips raising goosebumps in their wake as they travelled over the softness of your belly, toward the swell of your breast. His fingers sank into the pliant tissue, thumb grazing your taut nipple before he moved to lift the shirt over your head. As soon as you were free he pulled you into him again, crushing himself against you, craving your warmth, your scent. _You_.   
He stood, trembling, and led you to his bed, shedding himself of his clothes while you sank onto the edge of the mattress, naked and vulnerable, unable and unwilling to tear your eyes away from him. He hovered over you then, catching your mouth again with his own, easing you back until you were pinned beneath him, his cock brushing against your thigh like a brand. You clenched in impatient anticipation, but knew in your heart that the act itself would take time and great care. He'd come this far, yes, but for him to completely give himself over to you would be nothing short of an incredible journey, no matter how much your body cried out for him.  
He lowered himself, painting a trail of wet kisses down your chest and abdomen, painstakingly slow, as if you were his canvas. Your heart kickstarted again when a cool breath met the damp, matted curls of your sex before nimble fingers spread your slick folds.   
"So beautiful," he murmured before burying his face between your thighs, flattening his tongue against your most sensitive place. You tried to hold yourself back amidst the onslaught of pleasure he brought you with each curl of his tongue, each stroke of his fingers on the supple flesh of your thighs, but it all proved to be too much. Within minutes, you were coming profuse on his face, your breath issuing from dry lips in ragged pants as your hips rocked in spasms, lifting off the mattress with each jolt of electricity that pulsed through your veins.  
Butterfly kisses peppered your skin on his way back up the length of your body until he met you face to face once again, his languid smile a welcome sight. He buried his face in your neck, relishing in your warmth, in the intimate stillness of the bedroom. You were content to worship and be worshipped; as much as you wanted him to fill you, to just _fucking leap_ over that final hurdle and unite with you in the most carnal definition of the word, you allowed him time. Just as you had for the months leading up to this moment. Time to heal. Time to think, to feel, to laugh and _live and love again_.   
When he moved again, his lips found purchase on the shell of your ear before he whispered the words you'd been longing to hear. The gravity, however, with which he spoke them had you reeling, breathless, your heart skipping several beats at once. No one had ever said those three words to you like Jihyun Kim spoke them.  
  
 _"I love you."_  
  
He didn't wait for your response before he slipped his cock inside you, gently coaxing your legs further apart as he began to move slowly, unhurried in his pursuit of you. Your walls clenched around his length, stretching in the most delicious way until you had taken him all in and you sighed, fingers tangling in his hair, his lips upon your collarbone, palm against your cheek. It was transcendent, otherworldly, the emotions and sensations he stirred in you. It was too much... _it wasn't enough_ , and you wondered fleetingly if you had ever truly loved another before now. But it wasn't just about the act of sex itself: it was the incredible intimacy with which he regarded you, the kindness and compassion he showed you on a daily basis, his benevolent charm that shone in everything he said and did for you and others in his circle.   
"I love you too, Jihyun…" you breathed, folding yourself open for him to press fully into you, his pace increasing as he chased after his own release, triggering yours for a second time.  
It was all he needed. To hear you say those words, to return his sentiment; to feel your wet, velvet softness fluttering around him as you came together, his cock twitching inside you, his tears spilling once again onto the pillow beneath your head.   
Blissfully spent, he shifted his weight so that he lay beside you, tracing languid circles on your abdomen. You lay in silence while your breathing and pulse returned to normal, flushed skin glistening in the moonlight streaming in from the bedroom window.   
He searched your face in his customary way, looking for signs of doubt, of regret or sadness, and when he found none, he allowed himself to smile, for he knew, then, that he had overcome something he'd previously thought impossible, unattainable.  
  
And you, his beloved, had led him patiently here, never faltering or questioning him, always supporting his decisions.   
It was dangerous territory for him, and if he was to be completely honest with himself, it reminded him of his relationship with Rika. Some deep-seated fear told him that it was reckless, that you would end up breaking him, just like she had. But he felt better having let you in. He felt an astute sense of relief, as if his burden had been lifted, albeit a small portion. There were years of trauma to work through. Years of being made to feel like his love was unwarranted, too intense, too pure, too much. He was a man who had so much love to give, and here in his arms, was the woman who would willingly take whatever love he had left to offer after being beaten down and trampled upon by the only other lover he'd ever had.  
  
And she would give him more love than he could ever hope to receive.


End file.
